


The Wrath of the Scapegoat

by deepestfathoms



Category: Carrie - Stephen King, Carrie the Musical - Fandom
Genre: Anger, Anger Management, Boxing, Bullying, Carrie has a lot of pent up emotions, Coping Mechanisms, Dark Thoughts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miss Gardener is Miss Desjardin (the names are just different in the musical), Miss Gardener is a good mama bear, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Seattle Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24905128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: After an embarrassment at lunch that sends Carrie running to her coach in tears, Miss Gardener provides a way to release all of her bottled up emotions.
Relationships: Carrie white & Rita Desjardin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	The Wrath of the Scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm referring to this production: https://youtu.be/xEYjZB0K5sI

The bundle of red had come out of nowhere.

Miss Gardener stepped out of her office for what she swore was only two seconds, prepared to go refill her giant metal water bottle (what? it’s a coach thing! you wouldn’t understand unless you have to monitor dozens of athletes in the heat- she needs water, too, damnit!) and then get back to paperwork (YES she DID do paperwork even though she was a coach. her teaching career wasn’t all about sports!), but then a firestorm of crimson fabric came barreling through the locker room corridor and slammed directly into her arms. If it weren’t for her profession being a coach and the muscles she’s gained from having such a job, she definitely would have fallen right onto her rear.

She also nearly drop kicked the assailant, but then she noticed that the flash of red she had thought was the red of a bloody banshee, was actually the red of the trademark sweater that was always worn by her favorite student.

“Carrie!” She exclaimed. Her teal water bottle flew from her hands with a tremendous bang that rang in her ears, and she was sure that the floor had been dented upon impact. “What have I told you?! No more tackle hugs! You’ll break my neck or worse, yours!”

Despite her light scolding, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. She loved that Carrie felt comfortable enough with her to throw her full body weight into her arms, seeing as she had started out flinching and squirming away when she so much as raised her hand to blow her whistle. She would take being winded and having all her internal organs ruptured from the momentum of a teenage girl embracing around her stomach at full force than having all her guts intact and no gleeful daughter-figure to hug her.

Carrie mumbled something in response, but it was muffled by the aqua blue windbreaker her face was smothered against. Miss Gardener chuckled and stroked back unruly locks of thick brown hair.

“I was just going to get some water,” Miss Gardener told her red-swathed koala. “Care to join me or would you like to head inside and start your homework?”

She tried to smother her smile, but the giddiness just kept bubbling up inside of her like a ruptured oil well. Inky globs of glee spewed within her, coating her brain with endorphins that made her want to hug this girl and never let her go. She had never considered herself motherly up until she met Carrie White, and now she couldn’t imagine her life without the daily office visits with the junior. These visits became a ritual of sorts, starting after a particularly rough day for Carrie near the beginning of the year, and turning into a permanent cycle of her skipping the cafeteria to eat lunch in Miss Gardener’s office whenever she could sneak past the hall monitors.

But right now, unless it was squashed all over Miss Gardener’s windbreaker, Carrie had no food with her.

It was always worrying when Carrie didn’t eat. She was already as light as is, and the way her clothes sort of dangled from her frame didn’t help, either. Miss Gardener had been helping her eat more often, making a sort of challenge out of lunch (“if you eat your entire apple, i’ll excuse you from the mile on Monday” or “eat your sandwich and i’ll let you pick whatever game we play on Friday”) because forcing the girl to eat would make her no better than her demanding mother. Some days Carrie obliged to her bets, other days she simply couldn’t. Miss Gardener is never mad or disappointed with her when she couldn’t; she likes that she tries. She understands that it’s hard for Carrie sometimes. And, in return, Carrie will give her a grateful look that simultaneously melt and break Miss Gardener’s heart,

But, at that moment, there was something else that was worrying. Miss Gardener ran her fingers across Carrie’s head and realized that her hair was wet. She lifted her hand and saw that it had droplets of some kind of light brown residue cascading briskly down her skin. There were chunks of /something/ caught in her brown tangles, too.

“Carrie?”

There was a tiny whimper in reply. Miss Gardener felt a motherly instinct flare up inside of her and she leaned Carrie back to cup her cheeks, only to hold a face that was slick with drizzles of chocolate milk, spaghetti residue, and tears.

“Carrie!” Miss Gardener cried in shock. “Oh, Carrie, what happened?” But Carrie didn’t have to tell her- she could already assume, and that made rage bubble inside of her. Still, the words that came out of Carrie’s mouth hit her like a punch to the gut with an iron gauntlet.

“A-at lunch,” Carrie stammered, sniffling. “Th-these kids, th-they-” A glob of chunky tomato sauce fell from the crown of her head and spattered against her button nose, staining the collar and bodice of her yellow flannel shirt on the rest of the way down. With a voice that’s thick with humiliation and misery, she croaked, “They dumped their lunch on me.”

Miss Gardener felt an overwhelming tidal wave of fury crash over her, and it must have been visible on her face because Carrie flinched back and cast a dismayed look at the reddish stain on the front of her windbreaker. Miss Gardener looked at it, then back at Carrie, and then tenderly cupped her messy cheeks.

“Oh, my poor girl,” She murmured. “I am so sorry, honey. Are you okay? Did they hurt you at all?”

Carrie shook her head, but Miss Gardener still checked her for any fresh wounds. Carrie was a master at hiding injuries thanks to living with a mother who didn’t trust hospitals, so scanning her body became like a game of I Spy. Luckily, though, there were no fresh shiners or scrapes or cuts, just old scabs and bruises and a welt on her wrist from Norma “accidentally” dropping a baseball bat on her four days ago. But the spaghetti sauce she’s dripping with is dark enough to look like gore, and the noodles dangle limply like loose intestines from her frame.

“I’m okay,” Carrie whispered, voice wavering. 

“Come on,” Miss Gardener took her hand and led her inside her office, abandoning her water bottle for the moment. She sat the girl on the small sofa and retrieved a rag she wets with hot water and a change of gym clothes, seeing as Carrie’s were ruined by spaghetti and milk, and turning up to her next classes completely stained wouldn’t help her at all.

“I-I’m really sorry, Miss Gardener,” Carrie whispered. She’s sitting stiffly on the couch, back arched, nails dug into the cushions beneath her. A warm stream of chocolate milk oozes down into her right eye and she cringes in a way that makes her look like she’s about to be ill. Miss Gardener dragged the trash can over just in case.

“It’s alright, honey,” Miss Gardener assured her. “You aren’t a nuisance, I promise. You aren’t bothering me.” 

Carrie hadn’t said that she was any of those things, but it was written all over her messy face that she was thinking that she was. She looked down, shifting her knees anxiously. She jolted backwards when the wet rag was brought to her face.

“S-sorry,” She stammered.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Miss Gardener said. She gently wiped the dripping mess of chocolate milk and spaghetti sauce off of Carrie’s cheeks and nose and forehead until she no longer looked like an abstract art piece created by Pablo Picasso. But without the layer of lunch grime, the sadness in Carrie’s eyes became more apparent and glowed in shades of hazel and green-grey. Miss Gardener frowned. “Carrie? Are you okay?”

Stupid question- of course the poor girl wasn’t okay. She just got God knows how many trays of lunch dumped onto her.

“I-I was just sitting there,” Carrie whispered. “I wasn’t even doing anything to them! A-and then they c-came up behind me and--” She whimpered, wringing her fingers into white-knuckled fists in her flannel. Her clenched hands quivered with mounting anger. “And they dumped their _shit_ on me! When I was I was just _sitting there_! It’s just-- it’s not fair!! And I just want to rip their heads off or throw food on THEM!”

Miss Gardener was impressed- she’s never seen Carrie lose her temper like this. She’ll admit that she didn’t think the girl had it in her, but here she was, quaking with rage and face glowing red. Angry tears poured down her cheeks.

After a moment, Carrie started to look a little less pissed off and she blinked as if she had just come out of a trance. She looked down at her tightly balled fists as if they were drenched in the blood of the students who had bullied her and fearfully shook them out until they looked like her own hands again. She swallowed thickly and looked up at Miss Gardener fearfully.

“I-I’m sorry,” She whispered. “I-I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off, looking away. It seemed she thought that getting mad was the same as what those kids had done to her.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” Miss Gardener said. “You deserve to get a little angry. What those kids did to you was horrible.” She paused. “Carrie...have you ever tried boxing before?”

\---------------

“Miss Gardener, I don’t see how this is going to help me.” Carrie said. She gave the bulky red boxing gloves on her hands a look of visible distaste. Not being able to use her fingers made her a little nervous- what if someone snuck up on her and attacked her and she couldn’t grab the nearest doorknob to flee?

“Hush,” Miss Gardener said and Carrie shut her mouth instantly. “Just trust me.”

Carrie doesn’t seem too convinced, but she nodded and looked forward at the thick punching bag dangling in front of her. She tilted her head, nose twitching like an intimidated rabbit’s. The weight room’s permanent smell of sweat invaded her senses.

“Now,” Miss Gardener smiled. “Hit it.”

“This?” Carrie pointed at the punching bag- or at least, she tried to. You couldn’t really tell with the damn gloves on her hands.

“Yes.”

“But won’t it hurt?”

“That’s what the gloves are for, sweetheart,” Miss Gardener said patiently.

“Oh.” Carrie said. “Okay. Well…” She hit the punching bag and watched it jostle ever so slightly on its chain.

“Come on,” Miss Gardener encouraged. “You can do better than that. Get mad!”

“Get mad?” Carrie echoed, tilting her head like a confused puppy.

“You’re angry, Carrie. You’re upset over what happened at lunch. Let all those emotions out. Don’t keep them bottled up in you- it’s not good for you.” Miss Gardener said. “Come on, sweetheart. Get mad!”

“Get mad,” Carrie said to herself. “Get mad. Get mad. Get mad!” She drew her arm back and sent it flying at the punching bag, causing it to rock treacherously on its chain.

“There we go!” Miss Gardener cheered.

Carrie threw another punch.

And another.

And another.

_Bam bam bam_

The punches against the bag sound like gunshots in the still, quiet school weight room. Sweat soon sprung to Carrie’s brow and poured down her face, making her gym shirt and basketball shorts cling to her skin. Every muscle in her arms started to strain and ache, but she ignored the pain. The adrenaline is making it bearable, all the beautiful chemicals coursing through her veins as she hits and even kicks the hanging bag over and over again. 

_Bam bam bam_

That and the anger.

_Bam bam bam_

She watched her red mitts slam against the leather through narrowed eyes, imagining that they were coated in the blood of all her bullies. 

It all makes her so angry. Her mother. Her treatment at school. Her life. Who she is. 

Seventeen long years of being the good Christian girl. Of turning the other cheek. Of enduring and bearing. Of being patient and understanding and letting things go, always letting things go.

It gets old. So fucking old.

_Bam bam bam_

As she jabbed and knocked the bag back and forth, watching it swing wildly from its chain, she imagined what would happen if she didn’t have this gym, this bag, Miss Gardener, as a shock absorber for when this happened. When she exploded.

She imagined storming into the school and screaming her head off at the inconsiderate teachers, the rude students. She’s a smart kid, dammit! She’s been in school as long as everyone else, and she’s very good at it. No more questioning her, no more arguing or trying to make her look foolish, no more bullying. 

_Bam bam bam_

She imagined setting fire to the cafeteria, not caring about how much money it would cost to fix it. Just to hear the crackles of flames, just to watch the people scramble, just to be the chaos instead of the shield against it.

_Bam bam bam_

She imagined stalking into her homeroom, kicking the door open like she would sometimes try to do with the prayer closet. She would watch class jump in surprise and fear, not just staring at her like she’s her mother’s trained puppy. 

_Bam bam bam_

She imagined punching Chris in the face, hearing the crack of her nose. Better than any of the bullshit Christian music her mother makes her listen to.

And then, relishing it, she imagined dunking her into water until she couldn’t breathe, she imagined stealing Helen’s clothes and leaving her stranded naked in a bathroom stall for hours, she imagined tripping Norma in the hallway and have her break her jaw on the way down, she imagined putting a snake in Sue’s shoe and would watch her howl and foam at the mouth when it pumped her full of venom.

_Who’s the boss now? Who’s the tough one, who doesn’t take shit, who doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want, ever?_

She imagined growling into all of their ears as she tore into all of them and didn’t care how much of a devil it made her.

_How do you like me now?_

Being strong, and bold, and standing up, taking what she wants when she wants it, for the first time in her goddamn life.

_Bam bam ba-_ **_AAAAAAAHHH!!!!!_ **

The thing that overcame the sound of punching gloves slamming against a punching bag was just a noise, one that had been boiling up in Carrie’s chest for hours; long before she had gotten lunch dumped over her head, or walked into school, or even started school at all.

Carrie didn’t yell a whole lot, never had. She’d always had the tendency to quietly brood when her temper ran high or her spirits low, something that had helped facilitate her transformation over the years of torment and torture. So in reality, the noise that was escaping her right now was one she’d been holding back for a very long time.

It sounded stupid. But it felt good.

So she kept doing it.

Swinging her fists like a whirlwind, Carrie went after the poor punching bag, not caring whether she hit it or not as long as she was the stronger one, and she yelled the entire time. Intimidating or not, effective or not, when a sound was being uttered over and over by a teenage girl who’s been living the closest thing to Hell that could exist on God’s green earth, a teenage girl with wild eyes, a mangy body, and a lifetime worth of pain...

It was a goddamn battle-cry.

A heavy, rageful, awkward hit to the top of the bag sends the chain breaking from the ceiling, and all three hundred pounds of sand crash to the ground, rattling the floor upon impact. 

Carrie jumped back, crying out in surprise. She stared down at her fists, feeling bruises blooming over her knuckles even with the gloves on, and began to weep. Because she will never do any of that stuff she imagines.

She never does that.

She never defends herself or stands up for herself or fights back.

She only endures and endures and endures like a good little girl, like Mama wants, like how Mama made her.

It's what's best for her. What's best for everyone.

Carrie collapsed to her knees on the dulled tile floor, holding her trembling mitts up against her damp hair, heaving in and out as her heart pounds frantically, trying to break out of her rib cage. Miss Gardener rushed down to her side and she fell into her arms, sobbing. 

“You did so good, baby girl,” Miss Gardener told her, rubbing her back comfortingly. Carrie wiggled her way completely into her coach’s lap and curled up there, crying harder. “So, so good. Doesn’t it feel good to get everything out?”

Through painful sobs and burning heaves for air and acidic tears, Carrie nodded honestly. Because it did feel good, even if it hurt. Or maybe she’s just grown to like the pain.

“I-I broke it,” Carrie choked out, then instantly gasped for air afterwards. Her lungs stung intensely in her chest. She looked at the ruined punching bag guiltily. How did she do that?

“It’s okay.” Miss Gardener stroked her sweaty hair. “We have other ones. Don’t worry about it.”

“My hands hurt,” Carrie mumbled, suddenly weak and dizzy with exhaustion. “But...I like this...wanna do more of it…”

“That can be arranged.” Miss Gardener said, smiling slightly. 

“Yay,” Carrie whispered. She nuzzled her head under Miss Gardener’s chin and closed her eyes. With a shaky breath, she released the tension on her muscles and relaxed. 

One day, she told herself. One day she would get her revenge. But for now, she can rest easy in the arms of the only person who has ever given a shit about her in her entire life.


End file.
